They chase and race one another around the house. We can always tell when a mad dash is about to be initiated if we're not right there where they are, witnessing them crouching-off against one another, one at one end of the room, the other at the opposite, in position, daring one another to begin the chase. If we're not there to witness the run-off, we can hear the challenging little barks that reflect one or the other initiating the ritual.

And off they go, their little paws thudding against the floor, the carpeting, up stairs, down stairs, all around the house. When we're downstairs and they're on the upper floor we know exactly where they are from the thumping rush of their skinny little legs. It's amazing how sound carries. It's astonishing that little creatures like that can, with the sheer momentum of their mad dashes raise a gallop that can sound like a miniature herd of elephants dashing about.

And it's amusing to witness their antics; brief intermissions where the dashes turn into face-to-face, paw-to-paw wrestling, each upright on hind legs, pummelling one another in a bid for primacy, where neither is prepared to give way, though Jillie has the advantage in weight and Jackie the slighter advantage in height, and perhaps even gender.

When things really get frantic he leaps with incredible grace and blink-eyed lightning-swiftness onto the sofa, the back of the sofa, down again in one fluid swoop while she, with no faith in her leaping capacity, leaps at the edge of the sofa in frustrated puzzlement. And in reverse, once they're both at ground level again, she will duck under the large coffee table in the family room, and dart out repeatedly to its edges, daring him to join her  underneath the table, and he never will, instead snapping at her each time she darts out, until they both make a final dash and suddenly surrender themselves to exhaustion.

At which point, it's time to look for any handy chewies, strips of rawhide, the favourites of which are those washed with chicken flavouring. Occasionally they'll tackle their antler horns, but they're not favourites. He will retire with a special treat, a hard-twisted rope of rawhide, in one of their little beds, while she hauls hers under the coffee table, each seeking the isolation from the other that permits them the challenge-free leisure to pursuit their chewing frenzy uninterrupted.

Once again, my husband's chronological age has caught up with my own. And so, we put our heads together so to speak, to decide what could be put together as a celebratory dinner for the special occasion of his birthday. He enjoys looking through our library of cookbooks and he set about doing just that. Earlier on Thursday he had gone out shopping and brought back among other food items, a pound of fresh mussels. What to do with mussels? Well, how about paella, a dish I haven't made in ages. He had also bought small-cut pieces of chicken breast, just perfect.

He went through an assortment of paella recipes and of all things came up with one that didn't seem as traditional to me as the one I'd imagined putting together based on a tomato sauce. This recipe he chose had no tomatoes in it, much less any vegetables other than onion, garlic and frozen peas, but it's the one he wanted. The teaspoon of water-soaked saffron gave it some of the missing colour, added to the chicken soup liquid base. I was happy because I would be using long-grain rice, since Irving usually prefers oriental short-grain rice and that's what we regularly eat, but with this dish parboiled long rice is a staple. I wasn't thrilled with steaming the mussels, since they're alive before steaming, but considered it a sacrifice to produce the dish wanted for our special meal. In any event, I shucked the mussels out of their shells afterward since they'd take up too much room in the casserole in which the finished product was baked.

And that casserole dish was one of a number that our younger son who does pottery, gave us as a gift years ago. Never before used, because I hesitate to use such beautiful things meant, I feel more for show than as utilitarian objects, the casserole dish was just perfect for the finishing bake of the paella. Because of the richness of the paella that followed a very small fresh salad and was capped off with fresh blueberries, we had decided it would make more sense to bake his birthday cake the following day.

So on Friday he went again on a hunt for a recipe that appealed to him and came up with one out of the 2015 Milk Calendar, each edition of which we tend to save for their often-intriguing recipes. The cake recipe he chose was called "Mayan Chocolate Bundt Cake". Aside from cinnamon, nutmeg and a whole lot of cocoa powder (3/4 cup) it also, unusually called for 1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper. I decided to use slightly less cocoa powder, to reduce the amount of cayenne pepper and to substitute the all-purpose flour called for with cake and pastry flour, requiring that the flour amount be slightly increased.

Before the choice of cake I'd meant to bake a light chocolate layer cake and layer the parts with whipped cream. For this cake, however, I thought it better to just present the whipped cream separately to be ladled over the cake slices as desired, and that's what we did. I prepared a chocolate icing just to be spread over the top of the cake.

And the chicken breasts I baked for dinner were glazed with a mixture of honey, soya sauce, cider vinegar and olive oil, after using garlic powder on the breasts themselves. A combination of chopped onion and sliced mushrooms rested on the bottom of the baking pan in which the chicken was baked and the resulting combination was fragrant and piquant, the chicken breasts moist and tender. Cauliflower florets were baked separately. Of course Irving ate too much of his birthday cake at one sitting so the following morning he wasn't too enthusiastic about his usual robust Saturday morning breakfast.

We splurged on dinner so to speak, and went short by necessity on breakfast, as a result.

Shortly after we moved decades ago to our new neighbourhood when we bought the home we are currently living in, I had asked our doctor's office if they could recommend any local optometrists as I thought it was time to see if any change in my eyesight merited attention and a new prescription for eyeglasses. I was given the name and the address of a local optometrist and duly made an appointment.

When I arrived and identified myself and my appointment time I was given a survey to fill out; the usual thing, it appeared when coming for the first time to any medical service, and I began to fill out the details as requested. That done, I returned it to the receptionist, but she pointed out I had failed to complete most of the survey, so I returned with it, seated myself and began reading. It became readily apparent that the personal-health survey had attached to it a purely commercially-application survey asking me questions about preferred products.

I returned the thing intact to the reception desk informing the receptionist that I had no intention of completing a commercial questionnaire and she looked shocked, insisting that I had no option but to fill it out if I expected her employer to apply her professional skills to my benefit. I was annoyed to say the least, and responded that any professional that employed such means of coercion couldn't be much of a professional, and she heatedly responded in defence of her employer.

At which point the optometrist herself came to the front area from the back where the examination rooms were located to testily ask what was happening. When the receptionist explained in evident distress, the optometrist looked at me with icy disgust and told the receptionist to 'never mind', and she would examine me shortly.

That examination took place, professionally. The optometrist, a youngish woman, proved to be stiffly unyielding to my attempts to loosen the atmosphere, betraying not a hint of humour, grimly getting on with her task, limiting her words to just what was required in the process. Unlike my later experiences with another optometrist, this one was also selling products as well, a full array of frames and lenses. So I made my choice and was called at home some time later to pick up the finished product.

A finished product which I was unable to use; the lenses were far too strong for my needs; wearing the resulting eyeglasses to read for any length of time would give me a headache. I decided to put the experience down as a learning one, and to avoid this woman's professionalism like the plague.

And now, today, in the local newspaper, there she is smiling broadly among a group of another 20 or so local people representing local businesses, characterized as the "cream of the crop", chosen to represent "the best of the best in business, preparing to accept the 14th annual business excellence awards, hosted by the area chamber of commerce. Achh!

Health and Wellness Professional of the Year

Many years ago I had a subscription to Canadian Living magazine for a number of years, and I used to look forward to receiving them through the mail as an especial treat, to read the articles and look for intriguing new meal preparation recipes. It's been a long time since I've seen one of those issues and I'm not terribly interested in leafing through those pages at this stage in my life.

Last time my husband was at the library he saw that they were ridding themselves of old issues. So, of course he thought about me, and scooped up a handful of the magazines to bring back home with him. Along, of course, with irresistible books the library was also selling off for a pittance, some donated, some representing books they were clearing off their shelves.

He thought I'd be delighted; interested at the very least, but I wasn't. After a mental shrug he sat down himself with the issues and went through them, tearing out pages of recipes that he thought looked intriguing and that I might be interested in trying out. Truth is, he showed me a handful of recipes that I knew I'd like to try. So I started off a few days ago with one that looked promising to both of us.

The recipe was titled 'Southwestern Cauliflower Cakes', and I set about putting it together. Half a cauliflower head was to be steamed in bite-size pieces, then mashed with a potato masher. Two eggs, 1 tbsp. grainy mustard, 1 tsp. chili powder, 1 clove garlic crushed and 1/4 tsp. salt and pepper later, along with 3/4 cup of breadcrumbs, 1/2 cup frozen corn kernels and 1 tbsp. chopped dried chives later, I had the makings of cauliflower pancakes. I went considerably shorter on the breadcrumbs, and added a half-cup freshly grated Parmesan along with thinly sliced green onion, though.

And then set about forming the pancakes, not as the recipe suggested, to come out with a dozen small cakes, but making more robust ones, so that there were five good-sized pancakes. And then they were briskly browned in olive oil, placed on and covered over with paper towelling to drain excess oil, and served.

But not before we'd had a nice fresh little salad featuring avocado, cucumber, tomato, carrots and lettuce. Followed once the cauliflower main course pancakes were consumed, by clementine wedges.

I'd make those pancakes again, but I would likely use a smaller garlic clove. Irving thought that garlic, despite the other ingredients, overpowered the pancakes.

It is a relationship made in literary heaven. People who are passionate about reading consume books because of an all-consuming need to read. Those affected/afflicted seem incapable of resisting the urge to acquire printed material to satisfy this gentle pathology. We are among them. There is nothing more anticipatory and exciting than being confronted by literary choices, by viewing the names of writers one knows and admires, by sighting book titles you've read about and aspire to read.

Of course, there's a bit of a problem with book clutter as well, since over the years the continual acquisition of books, too few of which have ever been shed does present a complicating factor in providing room for them. It would make good sense if, having read a book, one passes it on to others and there is a movement that does exactly that. I've come across a book sitting on a bench at the airport just waiting for some to rescue it from abandonment; deliberately, I've felt, but haven't succumbed since it wasn't 'my type' of literature.

In his many bi-weekly trips to the library my husband cannot restrain himself from browsing among the books that the library seeks to de-acquisition, and invariably -- from a trip to the library or our bank which puts on donated-book sales from time to time, with the money gathered going to a local charity -- will find something irresistible that he simply must have for reference or to provide a good read; and he often brings back books that he knows will please my own tastes, different in some degree from his own.

The burst of pleasure and curiosity that then overtakes us as together we consider the new treasures now in our possession is a shared joy. But -- there is always, it seems, a 'but'.

We are bursting at the seams. We are replete with books. This house has many bookshelves welcoming books and scarce room now to accommodate any more. A situation which has never deterred my husband from cheerfully hauling more home. It is, for us, the height of luxury to be able to pore over titles, to decide what will be next at our already-bursting bedside tables. The reassuring thought that we will not, any time soon, run out of reading material heartens us.

The thought that we may never in our lifetimes accomplish a finished! determination, having read through all the material we have acquired over the decades, does not.

The first veterinarian services we contracted with 25 years ago, for Button, our little black miniature poodle/pom mix was a vet who had a then-fairly modest veterinarian clinic not far form where we live. By the time Riley, our apricot toy poodle joined our household seven years later, the original veterinarian had retired, his younger brother replacing him and it was he with whom we built a rapport, and who knew our little dogs and with whom we felt comfortable entrusting their health issues.

As the years passed, the vet service grew and eventually became quite a going concern; they bought up the properties on either side of their clinic, then erected a purpose-built new hospital, large and modern with ample laboratory room in the basement for their technicians. They became more profit-oriented, opening a pet-supply store at the side of the vet services. The employees remained animal-centric in their professional devotion, but the sheer size of the operation gave it a less personal feeling, to us.

And invariably, as Button and Riley aged, health complication arose. When emergency situations erupt they never do at convenient vet operating hours, needless to say, which necessitated that we drive across the city to one of the two 24-hour veterinarian hospitals operating in Ottawa, for help in managing what sometimes were health problems readily solvable, but eventually would become life-threatening. That 24-hour vet service was efficient, and dedicated to proffering whatever professional assistance that could help. We were always impressed with the staff, from reception, to technicians, to assistants to veterinarians.

Our two almost year-and-a-half-old twins, Jackie and Jillie, are quite different from one another; although most people cannot tell them apart there are distinct visual differences that we readily identify but others cannot. Apart from outward appearances they're as different as they can be temperamentally and physiologically. Jillie is a robust little dog with ample flesh over her tiny bones whereas Jackie is extremely lean with nothing to spare. Jillie never falls ill, but Jackie does frequently. Already in his young life he has been driven by us to emergency services more than either Button or Riley ever were, although Riley came a close second.

Yesterday morning began with Jackie throwing up some fluid, informing us that he wouldn't want breakfast, and that's just what happened. He seemed normal during our afternoon ravine walk, but at dinnertime he shied away from his food with complete disinterest; this, from a little dog who usually manifests a ravenous appetite. Before long it became evident by his behaviour that he was quite unwell. He's congenitally restless, but now he couldn't find anywhere he could rest in comfort at a time of day when he usually naps. He stretched often, and crouched, as though finding relief in those contortions.

He looked distressed, his tail which usually slaps swiftly back and forth like a metronome was tucked into his backside uncharacteristically. It isn't unusual for this kind of thing to happen with him as it does perhaps every week and a half or so, but it usually resolves itself by dinnertime and he eats a hearty dinner, but not this time. Eventually, around ten in the evening, he settled into one of their little beds for a sound rest, and slept for almost two hours.

By the time they were taken out for the last time before heading up to bed, he re-entered the house his bumptious little self, tail swinging madly, squirming body nestling into my legs, tongue licking my hands, and then soon up we went to bed, much relieved, my husband in particular for whom these episodes of illness take their toll. Jackie slept soundly through the night, and morning found him in his usual high spirits. Eating breakfast was routine and he seems fine. This is typical of him.

Since we lost Button and Riley we haven't been able to bring ourselves to return to our original veterinarian. We've taken them to several other vet services and ended up with a small practise also nearby our home. But this service has disappointed us in the past year; one of the vets seems somewhat coldly removed and disinterested, the other espousing views I can't agree with, and when we needed their services on short notice they were unable to accommodate us.

So it makes sense, to seek out the services of a place we trust. The emergency vet hospital is staffed with quite a few veterinarians, and they all practise privately through the hospital. We've now made an appointment for their annual examination and inoculation update with one of the mature veterinarians who impressed us with his kindly and informed attitude in past visits of an emergency nature, and hope that this will be a solution to our dilemma. That we will be able to discuss Jackie's health concerns with someone who will be able to diagnose why that little fellow succumbs on frequent occasions to such health frailties.

This past Sunday just happened to be an extremely frigid day. It was minus 7C, with a brisk wind and very damp, so that the cold truly penetrated, something that those whom we came across in the ravine that day mentioned with some element of discomfort and surprise that the wind was so evident even in the ravine where we're usually protected from its excesses. It wasn't quite as emphatically uncomfortable as at the street level, but noticeable nonetheless.

Still, the creek was not frozen, only parts of it here and there. Its current seems a challenge to the ice. And despite the frigidity we saw a number of robins flitting about, looking for live food in the freezing water. It's quite amazing that despite robins' traditional natural flight in late fall to the south where they will overwinter, the last decade or so has resulted in the phenomenon of some robins remaining in the frozen north rather than responding to their natural instincts to fly to more clement regions avoiding winter's excesses.

We did come across quite a few people walking their dogs, all of them known to us, both as passing acquaintances and those with whom we have warm relations because we've got to know one another over the years. Jackie and Jillie were wearing their boots because of the extreme cold; their tiny paws freeze after prolonged exposure, and the boots allow them the opportunity to enjoy the forested ravine without freezing up. The boots, for some strange reason, seem to encourage them to engage in even wackier behaviour than they usually display; they seem somehow to be electrified with energy.

The problem is they're too full of enthusiasm, and when they see another dog approaching they become extremely excited, barking greetings, and racing to greet them. When it's a dog they're not familiar with the tone of the barking changes, its friendly joyful greeting alters toward a canine 'who are you in my ravine?', and we call them back. Jackie always responds, but Jillie continues her course usually, approaching the other dog at a gallop. When she feels too close for comfort, that's when she decides to race back to us, but doesn't stay, simply repeats the performance, despite hearing us tell her to stay. Sometimes a quick treat will do the trick.

On Sunday, this little drama repeated itself, the oncoming dogs familiar with our two's routine ending with all of them cavorting a bit; the larger dogs tend to try to sidestep our two, alternating with trying to play with them and if they're too energetic about it, our two find it alarming and swiftly retreat. Usually the other owners chide their large dogs to be more gentle around smaller ones.

When we approaching the last long uphill climb to the street at the completion of our daily woodland jaunt, Jillie heard and then saw a dog in the distance before us and ran off, Jackie following her. The routine is that they'll return to us when we call, but only so far, and then race off again. This time where Jillie was racing to happened to be a very narrow path sitting astride the point where the bank is highest over the creek. When she got close enough to the Golden Retriever she was barking at, she backed off, but Jackie moved in. Two young people, unknown to us, were standing beside the Golden, and they just watched.

They just watched as the Golden kept forcing Jackie further and further down the bank which is straight and perpendicular and packed with snow, the creek below free of both ice and snow. We were running from quite a distance to catch up, hoping Jackie wouldn't end up in the creek. He has no extra fat on him whatever, and weighs about 10 pounds. He's a timid, skinny little fellow, actually, and sometimes his enthusiasm runs away with him, as it did on this occasion.

The young couple stood, watching, not calling off their dog to allow Jackie to clamber up the bank, until he was about a foot from the creek, when Irving reached the scene, scrambled down to retrieve Jackie, then struggled to make his way back through the deep snow up the steep bank. The fellow of the pair offered Irving a hand to help to haul him up to the  trail, but like a pissed-off dog, he got a "shove off!" rumble for his paltry effort, and I tossed a broken branch down to my husband to help him gain some purchase.